City Of Ruin

by Mark Charan Newton

‘It is their payment.’ Artemisia spoke proudly, a noticeably different tone from earlier. ‘They work in exchange for tobacco, to which they are addicted, and therefore they become addicted to working for me.’

  ‘Isn’t that like slavery?’ Eir suggested.

  ‘It is no different to working for money, like your races do,’ Artemisia replied.

  ‘What do they do, on this ship?’ Randur asked, strolling up to one perched on the edge of the rail so precariously, he wondered if it might fall off. He began stroking its fur, and the winged monkey regarded him coolly, taking another puff of its roll-up. It wore an expression of deepest satisfaction.

  ‘Mainly they do repairs on the Exmachina for me,’ Artemisia said, ‘since they can easily access all the way underneath. They run errands about the ship, and they scout better than anything else I’ve known, providing they fly on solo missions. They’re prone to arrogance and infighting among their tribes.’

  There were so many questions Randur wanted to ask, but it didn’t seem urgent. It occurred to him that he felt immensely secure on this ship – being on the run had driven him into a sense of paranoia. A gust of wind came on board, disturbing the peaceful ambience. Artemisia glanced up in irritation, and only then did he think it odd that the wind hadn’t really been present before. His first thought was of some cultist trickery, then he realized that this woman and her ship might be beyond all that.

  Rika strolled across the deck, a dark gown rippling softly against her body, once again every bit the Empress. Her demeanour was like a premonition, a return to something more ancient and established. Artemisia responded with something that might be mistaken for an emotion, though what, he couldn’t say.

  Rika had noticed them survey her clothing. ‘I found it in one of the cupboards. It doesn’t fit perfectly, but it’s surprisingly warm.’

  ‘It is an example of what the few humans might wear, where I come from,’ Artemisia said.

  ‘You have humans in your world?’ Eir asked, but received no response.

  Rika’s glance towards Artemisia was wide-eyed and approval-seeking. Randur knew this because Eir had often done the same to him. So Rika sought attention from this being but, according to Eir, Rika had not once in her life shown such interest in anything other than the Jorsalir church.

  ‘Lady Rika,’ Randur said boldly, ‘you look at this woman like she’s a god.’

  ‘Perhaps she is,’ Rika whispered, speaking to herself more than anyone else.

  ‘She said that we – we as a race, as a species – we created them, in another earlier time,’ Eir observed.

  ‘Let us not steer into teleology,’ Artemisia said. ‘Has all my earlier information been absorbed?’

  ‘It’s just too much to believe in without seeing confirmation for ourselves,’ Eir said.

  ‘Agreed,’ Randur said. ‘You have evidence for all this, I take it? Something we can just, uh, see?’

  ‘Amusing that you assume merely seeing will confirm reality. If one sees a stump of a tree in a field at dusk, it may resemble the form of another human, and your fears may creep in, but it is still a tree. One should question what is being seen, at all times.’

  Artemisia moved away, assimilating into the darkness. The remaining three stared at each other and then Randur gave a shrug, pushing back a lock of his black hair, and turned his attention to the Hanuman once again. A moment later, the creatures squawked and flapped off to one side, out of sight.

  Randur needed to know what they would be doing next. This lack of purpose and clarity was unsettling.

  Suddenly Artemisia strode back towards them, carrying a massive metal container in one hand, displaying her immense strength. In her other hand she held two ends of some metallic rope, which trailed away to a part of the ship he couldn’t see. She dumped the container on the deck and declared, ‘Come over, if you wish to see.’

  The three of them knelt by the side of the tub, which was about four feet wide, and peered into the shallow pool of water it contained. Carefully, Artemisia draped the two pieces of metal rope into the water. Numerous sparks began skidding across the surface. A sizzling sound came and faded, and before long images with the consistency of a reflection began to form in the water.

  ‘This is in my world,’ Artemisia declared, standing a distance away as if she couldn’t look at it herself.

  An apocalyptic landscape.

  Structures that Randur could barely identify: metallic and ivory alien architectures.

  Lumbering creatures engaged in abstract warfare which was barely possible to imagine.

  Skies suffocating from smoke? No, there was merely a sun scarcely as potent as a moon.

  Races similar to Artemisia’s, many humanoid, some like rumel, others possessing a square spine that revolved as they walked.

  Occasionally the flash of explosions.

  Swarming numbers of inhabitants.

  ‘Who’s fighting who exactly?’ Randur asked.

  ‘The enemy is led by the Akhaioí – your own mythology calls them Pithicus – who possess potent military might. I have served on these battlefields and tried to combat their finest warriors. They are constantly attacking us – we, perhaps, who are the last free culture. I cannot remember for how long, precisely, but we estimate this current set of campaigns began all of ten thousand years ago. At this current stage, the Akhaioí lay siege to our greatest city, Truwisa, having seized the outlying beaches long ago. Our two cultures have been engaged in combat for so long it feels as if we are wedged in some epic cycle, destined never to end, apart from when the earth dies, and even then . . .’

  ‘Enough,’ Randur said, pulling back. It hurt him mentally to contemplate the phenomena he’d seen. ‘Why don’t you just invade our world like the other lot? What’s a few more deaths to someone from your world?’ He indicated the vision in the water, which was now stuttering out of shape, losing its clarity. Soon it had become simply water again.

  ‘Because, Randur Estevu, if we wiped many species from this world, it would create an unstable system, which would inevitably lead to our own collapse. Your human cultures have done so again and again, wiping out biological systems that were depended upon. Among all things, we Dawnir cannot be accused of thinking about the short term.’ Something flickered across her expression, a smile perhaps, or something darker.

  ‘If I could be Empress again,’ Rika said, ‘would you wish me to help?’

  ‘It is, perhaps, the only option I can see. We need you – or an equally trustworthy leader – to mobilize your people effectively.’

  ‘I feel . . . it is the right thing to do.’ It was as if the very presence of this woman had intoxicated Rika. A true seduction by the gods. There was something about Rika’s manner, a glimmer in her eye now, which indicated she had regained her determination. Perhaps she felt this stranger was still a deity, and would do anything requested by her.

  ‘Hang on,’ Randur said. ‘What’s to say you’re not representing evil, in all of this? How can we trust you over the other lot, the Pith-wotsits?’

  ‘The Pithicus, the Akhaioí. And to answer your question, you’re still alive aren’t you? That should be sufficient indication. And, remember, across the outermost islands – our enemy, are they not wiping out your people?’

  ‘I’ve not seen it.’

  ‘There were intelligence reports, Randur,’ Rika offered. ‘Indeed there has already been genocide on Tineag’l. That’s why the Night Guard were dispatched to the north – it wasn’t a simple military mission. They were to investigate what could have destroyed the settlements.’

  ‘Good,’ Artemisia finished. ‘It is settled. Let us rest for tonight. You have, I feel, witnessed enough for the moment. Please, absorb what I have said. I will get a couple of the Hanuman to guide you two to some comfortable quarters. In the meantime, Jamur Rika, I invite you to my bedchambers to discuss the future.’ It was said so matter-of-factly, but Randur couldn’t help but think she had designs on Rika in some way, although
he hoped she was sensible enough not to be swayed by such attentions.

  ‘Yes,’ Rika said, ‘it would be an honour.’

  ‘Rika!’ Eir exclaimed.

  ‘Easy.’ Randur held her arm, and whispered a reminder of just how many soldiers Artemisia had killed.

  ‘Eir, I will be perfectly fine,’ Rika said.

  Artemisia and Rika strolled away from them, leaving Eir seething. Randur held her but she shrugged him off.

  He raised his hands in despair and muttered, ‘She’s a grown lass.

  Dammit, she’s older than you, and Empress, and can do what she wants.’

  ‘Not now!’ Eir snapped.

  Two Hanuman fluttered down to his feet and began screeching something, and with little hands they waved emphatically for them to follow.

  *

  Through the night and through the walls, the groans of a woman filtered in gently. Eir lay there awake, trying to discern if it was Rika’s voice. A candle flickered in the bedchamber, casting a warm light across its wood panelling. There was a constant dull hum somewhere below.

  ‘Get to sleep,’ Randur mumbled into the pillow.

  ‘It’s her,’ Eir said. ‘She’s doing something to her. It sounds like they’re having . . . you know. Sex.’

  ‘Least someone’s enjoying themselves.’

  She slapped his back and he grunted. ‘Not Rika. She’s never done anything like that. And, anyway, Artemisia isn’t even human. It’s wrong, and it sounds as if Rika’s in pain. What if she’s torturing her?’

  Nothing was to be heard for a moment. Then Rika’s voice penetrated the night like a muted banshee, then a moan that was sensual and deep. Eir made to get up but Randur placed a restraining arm across her, then leaned nearer, squinting in the candlelight. ‘Eir, it doesn’t sound like torture. If it’s sex, then yeah, I’m surprised too, but I’m sure Rika knows what she’s doing. The fact that Rika is not yet dead suggests that Artemisia doesn’t hate the lass. And if they’ve developed some form of bond – then I reckon that it bodes well for all of us. Look at us – we were betrayed by that arsehole Munio. We were about to be dragged off and at some point executed, and then this . . . whatever she is, fell out of the sky and saved us. She needs us alive – or at least Rika. So as long as we’re on her side, we’re safe.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  ‘I’m always right.’

  ‘What about Munio?’

  ‘Well, nearly always.’

  She softened at the sight of his face. He was trying to smile, but by now she’d learnt to see beyond his bravado. She turned over and attempted to sleep, but the noises her sister was making continued to disturb her.

  Dozing off, Randur wondered, too, What is Artemisia doing to her?

  *

  Morning, and red sunrays spilled across the ship’s deck. A wind buffeted them, and the massive ship groaned under the elemental forces, yet the vessel maintained its stability. Hanuman drifted around the ship, a flock of oversized gulls silhouetted against the sun. Randur really wanted one for a pet, he decided. They seemed pretty nifty, couldn’t do any harm, so he would ask Artemisia for one, at some point.

  ‘Where’re the others?’ he asked.

  Eir hadn’t slept well at all, and had kept him awake for half the night. She was now leaning against the railing, peering down across the cloud-base.

  Joining her, he still couldn’t believe what they were standing on – a city-ship that apparently floated along, using sources of energy he couldn’t get his head around. The texture of the clouds looked unusual from this angle, the inverse ripples carpeting the distance. Only by seeing all this did he realize just how far he’d come since he had first left Folke for Villjamur.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she yawned.

  The ship was easier to see at this hour, and he was astounded by how extensively moss and lichen blanketed the deck. The platform itself seemed so long that Randur could barely see the end of it.

  ‘Good morning.’

  The face was hers, Rika’s, but the voice was utterly different. Her clothing had changed also. Dressed like a man, in khaki breeches, a black shirt and boots, she looked like an assassin more than an empress. She strode purposefully towards them, Artemisia some distance behind. Everything about Rika’s posture and her manner told Randur that this was someone reinvented, but he was surprised to see it happen so quickly, so thoroughly. Was that a blade hanging from her belt? Leather straps ran diagonally across her shoulder, and he stole a glance to see if there was a sword nestling behind, but there was nothing. Why was she dressed like this? What had happened to this formerly passive woman?

  The transformation disarmed him.

  Eir moved nearer to her sister and seemed uncertain how to begin. ‘What happened last night? We heard—?’

  ‘I was absolutely fine,’ Rika replied sternly.

  ‘You look different.’

  ‘I am different.’

  Eir sighed and shifted back by Randur’s side. He placed a hand on her shoulder but she shrugged him away. Rika regarded them both as if they were merely a part of the ship.

  Artemisia reached them, unchanged, as if she never could be any different. Her skin looked lighter now, but the ridges of muscle in her arms were still clearly defined.

  ‘We’re heading for Villiren immediately,’ Rika declared.

  ‘Still to see the commander?’ Randur asked.

  ‘Yes. Artemisia has offered to aid us in combat, so while I’m there I’ll persuade the Night Guard to give me their allegiance. Once they’re made aware of the situation, we’re certain they will comply. From there we can build a platform to seize back the Imperial throne from Urtica – by force, if we must. That man will suffer for what he’s done to us.’

  Seize it by force, Randur thought. Make him suffer. These surely aren’t her own words?

  ‘The allegiance of the Night Guard lies with the Empire,’ Eir observed. ‘Not you, personally.’

  ‘Then their allegiance will change.’

  Randur was impressed with Rika’s tone, her firmness. Her manner suggested things might be done with a little more zest at last.

  ‘And just what can Artemisia do?’ Eir turned to face the pale-blue woman. Randur wished she wouldn’t behave so petulantly in front of the killer, not that Artemisia seemed to care much.

  ‘I will turn whatever fighting there is in favour of the defenders,’ Artemisia said. ‘My presence alone will probably cause quite a stir. I believe, also, that I can set the Exmachina on course to disable the gateways through which they’ve infiltrated. I might lose the ship temporarily, but I can salvage enough equipment for me to return home.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just stop them coming through earlier?’ Eir said.

  ‘It is not a permanent solution. My disabling of the gates will not last that long. The Akhaioí will open them within . . . weeks perhaps. The technology they use is sophisticated enough. It’s rather like drilling a borehole through existence.’

  Randur didn’t understand the concepts or the philosophy, and being made to feel ignorant merely angered him. ‘Let me get this right,’ he said. ‘We go to Villiren – if it’s still there and we’re not too late – and join a war in which we’ll most likely perish.’

  ‘Worry not. Rika will come to no harm under my guidance.’ Artemisia placed a hand on Rika’s shoulder. ‘And we will aid the Jamur dynasty, as part of our deal.’

  Eir looked disgusted. ‘What did this thing do to you?’

  ‘She did nothing,’ Rika replied coolly.

  ‘Last night – I heard you.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, sister.’

  ‘Look, I think we’re all wondering, did she fuck you last night?’ Randur interrupted. Everyone turned to glower at him, and he could sense their collective rage. He held his hands up, apologetically, knowing that he had been a tad too blunt.

  Artemisia towered in front of him, then pushed her way past. A dozen Hanuman spiralled above t
heir heads, and she communicated to them in that guttural language. Then she turned to regard the group of humans, but only Randur was paying her any attention. Eir and Rika stood gazing at each other, the fracture between them painfully clear.

  Artemisia announced, ‘We leave immediately.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  They scoured the streets house by house after nightfall, the Bloods, searching for vacant properties or rented accommodation where a Night Guard soldier and a cultist woman might have taken shelter, and all the while a snowstorm was gusting bitterly around them, never settling.

  Malum had requested for his gang to embrace their more feral nature. His anger had connected with some deeper, weirder aspect of his vampyrism. They were masked and fuming and filled with purpose. They swaggered. They strutted and hollered out names to women heading home from the bars. They brandished hand-signals to intimidate the other gangs, who were hanging back in the shadows: Come fight us, you cowards. Fuck the Dog Gata Devils. There were stand-offs and mock scraps, name-callings and a sense of belonging. This was a subtle, directionless conflict.

  Malum, wearing his surtout and mask and heavy gloves, flashed his blades in the eyes of the hesitant until they whimpered their responses to him.

  ‘No, we ain’t seen nothing.’

  ‘Please, we’re just two old sisters.’

  ‘Fuck you doin’ at this time of night? Oh, it’s you, Malum – I didn’t mean to be rude, I . . .’

  He found out where all the slum landlords were located, those who had enjoyed licence from the portreeve to rip off the poor, who possessed no housing rights, and were without provision of firegrain for nights at a time. He beat them up because they were of little help to him, and maybe because they deserved it. One guy Malum decided he particularly despised was even chosen as a blood donor. In the man’s new-built Scarhouse mansion Malum’s gang gleefully ripped into him, punching their teeth into all his major veins and arteries. Malum took a glass from the man’s own drinks cabinet, filled it with fresh blood, before raising it in a toast to his victim’s good health.

  *